


Kisses are a Better Fate than Wisdom

by stepquietly



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philippe feels caught in their undertow, pleasured but almost irrelevant. But he wouldn't be such a successful thief if he didn't know when to set aside guilt for pleasure, and this is beyond anything he's stolen for himself so far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kisses are a Better Fate than Wisdom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cthonical (Nellie)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellie/gifts).



> Originally twitter fic now cross-posted to here.
> 
> The title is a quote by e. e. cummings.  
> \--

Philippe isn't sure why God has suddenly embroiled him in this tragic tale, but he thinks it might be punishment for years of lying and stealing. It's becoming clearer to him with every hour that God hasn't taken kindly to being lied to for the purposes of his escape and that's why Philippe now has to suffer the indignity of dragging himself behind Goliath and Navarre all day, spending his nights sleeping fretfully and stinking of sweat, curled up a modest distance away from Isabeau and the wolf.

"Truly, you are a cruel God," he mutters, because between his own circumstances and theirs it's beginning to seem like God is nothing but an angry child, building lives together only to smash them apart half-done.

He's even more convinced of this when he awakens just before dawn and Isabeau is leaning over him, pressing her lips carefully to his, close-mouthed and sweet, whispering _give this to him_ , and Oh God, you are vengeful, vengeful and petty, because Navarre is going to kill him and he'd only _just_ escaped death in the dungeons of Aquila. Now he'll die either torn apart by an angry wolf or on the end of Navarre's sword, and it's unfair, God, he's only a poor thief looking to do right in this situation.

He doesn't attempt anything so reckless as giving Navarre his kiss, but he does mention that his lady has sent her affections. Navarre's eyes narrow, and by the time Philippe tells him of the kiss and her words he's cowering behind a tree stump (because Philippe has not lived this long by being so reckless as not to place a shield between himself and certain death), calling across that he didn't ask her to, that she came out of nowhere. Navarre looks increasingly stunned at every word, his mask of quiet composure eventually slipping for long enough that Philippe can see his eyes widen (he does not blame him, he can barely believe the lady's actions himself) before he lunges across the wood to drag Philippe upright and kiss him senseless.

Philippe is worldly, God knows, but he's never had anyone kiss him (or her, he supposes) like this, hungry and biting at his lips like he'd like to go through them to her. And while Philippe has had a time or two when he's played a lover, he's done nothing like this, never with a man, never with a lady, and certainly not with what he's feeling pressing against his belly.

When Navarre hauls him upright, he isn't sure whether death isn't going to arrive at the end of an honour-laden sword and he cringes, but Navarre merely shoves him forward and heads over to mount Goliath. They start walking.

* * *

 

The rest of the day passes with Philippe in a daze, touching his lips constantly and then panicking when he sees Navarre watching him, the Hawk resting on his wrist, eyes blue and impenetrable. Philippe isn't sure what the outcome of this situation would be if the Captain didn't need him to get back into Aquila to kill the Bishop, though he's happy he doesn't have to discover the truth of the matter right now.

It isn't until that evening that Navarre touches him again, reels him in to stare at his face for a second before he states harshly that this is _for her_ , as if the words are dragged from him, before he pets Philippe's hair and kisses him soundly.

* * *

 

This starts a pattern and don't get me wrong, God, Philippe is happy to do what he can to help ameliorate the tragedy of this tale. But it's been nearly four days of being kissed senseless every morning and every night and he's never alone long enough to sort himself out, what with having to watch out for Lady Isabeau and travelling all day with Navarre. More than once he thinks he's seen a spark of perversity in Navarre's gaze when he's had to shy back, away, before anything too untoward should occur, but Navarre allows it and does not mention it to shame him for which he is grateful.

And then all of that goes out the window the night Isabeau takes off his shirt and curls up next to him, whispering Navarre's name over and over, and feathering her fingers over his shoulders and his stomach, scraping a quick nail over his back, and Philippe should be ashamed to say he came in his trousers like a boy and not the fabled Mouse who escaped Aquila but it felt like inevitability, like a moment of grace.

Afterward Isabeu whispers _for him_ as always, and while his eyes remain closed her body moves away, its warmth replaced a second later by Navarre's bulk pressing down on him, hands firm and almost painful on his nipples, mouth sucking and bruising on his neck, his chest, as if he can hardly contain himself.

* * *

 

From there their journey back to revenge slows remarkably as both sides seem to escalate things each time. Initially Isabeau took the lead but now Navarre seems more than willing to transgress whatever boundaries he'd kept himself to.

Philippe can hardly contain himself because the hours to the twilight and the dawn are filled with their bodies; Isabeau kissing his hip, leaving a small trail of bruises across the tops of his thighs and down toward his balls, to Navarre savagely fingering him while darkening those marks, sucking the taste of her cunt out of Philippe's mouth.

Philippe feels caught in their undertow, pleasured but almost irrelevant. But he wouldn't be such a successful thief if he didn't know when to set aside guilt for pleasure, and this is beyond anything he's stolen for himself so far. Isabeau's nails scraping his thighs, Navarre's cock in his mouth, Isabeau licking his lips clean, Navarre grinding their hips together, his eyes only on the Hawk circling them above; Philippe's days melt into his nights while one exchanges for the other.

* * *

 

After the first day Navarre fucks him, he lets Philippe ride Goliath (to save him the ache he says, although Philippe aches anyway with every prancing step the horse takes, feeling hollow and wet). That's the first night that Isabeau licks him open, and Philippe isn't sure what he's done to deserve this but God is good, God is great, he'll never doubt the Almighty again.

* * *

 

It isn't until much later that Philippe starts to notice the way in which Isabeau's hands tremble when they come to the edges of his shoulders, as if expecting there to be more there to grasp; or the way Navarre will always watch the Hawk and never meet his eyes, as if reminding himself that she is all he wants and the body below him is irrelevant.

It makes Philippe sad, desperate to help, but his attempts to kiss back more aggressively are met with confusion, as if they'd all but forgotten him as anything but a canvas in their yearning for each other. It makes him angry, sad, aroused, confused. And he resolves that in the morning, after the last of Isabeau's kisses, he will tell Navarre that he can no longer be their go-between.

* * *

 

That day the soldiers ride up over the hill, the Hawk falls from the sky, Navarre screams, and Philippe rides desperately on Goliath towards a ruined abbey, whimpering "Oh, you are a cruel God to do this. A cruel God indeed."


End file.
